Deathmarch
by Thistlefang
Summary: Walking to your death is an experience that's more or less indescribable. Scotland isn't ready to meet his fate quite yet, is he? - oneshot -Rated T for 'terribly written'


Walking to your death is an experience that's more or less indescribable. The only way to truly sum it up is to call it outer body. You know the end result, sure, but it's the process of how it plays out that makes even the coldest person break. Not always on the outside, no, but mentally it tears you apart, piece by falliable piece.

For Allistor, however, it was worse than any of the tortures he had endured in his lifetime. He didn't want to die. Not at the hands of his baby brother. Not like this. Then again, if he was going to be publicly executed then there was no way he was ever going to show that backstabbing little English bastard fear. No matter what he was thinking, no matter how many painful memories were resurfacing.

Memories, he mused. It was almost funny how no matter how hard he tried to resist the thoughts of long gone happy times that were threatening to drown him, no matter how hard he tried to block them out and stay unfeeling uncaring - blank - he couldn't.

He couldn't hold back the thoughts of how adorable the little brother now marching him to his death had been as a baby; how the first time that stupid frenchie had proposed an 'alliance' Allistor had somehow managed to trip and fall halfway down a flight of stairs; how he'd stood proud at the head of armies of his own people, fearless and proud, as a nation should be.

Somehow, looking back, the small sparks of good in the scotsman's long and bloody life managed to outweigh the mountains of bad. At the point in time he was coming to realize this, however, it wasn't brightening his day any. At this point, the only way his day could be brightened - for lack of a better word - involved a miracle, and as a rule miracles hated him.

That was a fact that had made itself all too clear. He'd watched his friends, family and people fall one by one, looked on as they'd been bloodied and broken, tossed to the side. He'd gazed out, helpless, as his country had burned. And now, finally, it was his turn to burn.

The chains around his wrists were tugged violently, causing him to stumble on the mud-slick, trampled ground. He regained his footing quickly, holding his head up high and staring defiantly out at the masses gathered to watch his 'last stand'. They could watch all they wanted. They'd never see him bow down at Arthur's feet.

The guards dragging him behind them came to a halt in front of the loosely-built wooden platform serving as a stage, shoving their red-haired prisoner forward to half-kneel in front of a younger man clad in well-polished silver armour.

"Allistor, you're acting like a fool." Arthur's voice was loud and confident, clearly only for the entertainment of the crowd.

Were this one of the stories that the Englishman enjoyed so much then Allistor assumed that this would be the part where he'd say 'I'm not the fool, you are!' or something similar. Well, there was no harm in ruining little Artie's fun, now was there?

He grinned crooked up at his brother. "When have I ever no acted like one? It's more fun than endin' up like ye did, eh prissy-pants?"

As expected that statement was not well received. A steel boot connected with the side of his face, sending stars across his vision and almost causing him to fall to the ground. Almost.

"Don't test my patience, brother." The last word spoken was almost spat out, as though it were an insult. "I'm trying to be fair. I'm offering you a way out of the mess you've created for yourself."

The mess he'd created for himself? Well, that was rich. He'd been attacked, his people given the choice of either submission or death. How had that been Scotland's fault?

Rather than reply, Allistor threw back his head and laughed before spitting blood onto that oh-so-pretty armour Arthur was so proud of.

That was when 'brother dearest' lost his temper, drawing his sword in one swift movement and holding the well-sharpened tip to the else's throat, just above the faded scar that already ran across it.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't end you right here and now, bastard."

"I could give ye more than one, Iggy, but the main one is that yer little crowd of onlookers will be down one piece of light entertainment if ye do, aye?" He tried to keep the smug grin off of his face at managing to get under the kid's skin, he honestly did, but he couldn't quite do it.

The 'kid' in question shot him a smouldering glare, tracing his sword across the Scotsman's neck, opening up a shallow slit over the jagged line that had long since healed. The elder only smirked and beckoned the blond to come closer. Arthur, surprisingly enough, complied, stooping to speak quietly into his brother's ear.

"You won't be smirking like that when you're hanging, Allistor. See reason for once in your life. Please."

This earned a small chuckle. "Ye were so much cuter when ye were a wean, but I always knew that ye would end up bein' a powerful wee bastard. I'm proud o' ye kid."

Nothing else needed to be said. Face stern, England rose to his feet. "Very well then. I can see that you've made your choice."

There was a pause as he sheathed his sword and let out a weary, borderline-regretful sigh, turning once more to look at the man kneeling before him.

"Guards, take him to the gallows." 


End file.
